


You say your heart is on your sleeve

by Tanni



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanni/pseuds/Tanni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It only seems like a good idea because there is literally nothing on television that night." Or the one where Nick calls a phone sex line on a whim and things get a bit involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You say your heart is on your sleeve

**Author's Note:**

> This a highly self-indulgent fic which was going to feature loads of sex (added warning for sex industry work, I guess!) but ended up being mostly Feelings. And crepes.  
> Many, many thanks to Randa for cheerleading me through this, and to [Vae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae) for proofreading and Britpicking!  
> Title from Vance Joy's Play With Fire.

It only seems like a good idea because there is literally nothing on television that night. God, television is depressing at half past midnight on a Friday night, Nick thinks as he surfs through the channels with a listless sigh. He should have just gone to bed after he got home from the pub. He pauses the TV on a cheap looking infomercial for a phone sex line and goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. 

When he returns, the ad is still frozen on the screen in big, tacky silver letters. Nick looks at the clock on the DVD player and shakes his head, wondering how lonely people must feel before they call a number like this. Then again, his brain irritatingly reminds him, it's not like he's got off with anyone lately. Who is he to judge? He downs the entire glass of water and sits back down onto the sofa, grabbing his phone with a smirk.

He’s not drunk, not really. He mostly only dials the number because it seems funny; he's still at that precise point of being tipsy where _everything_ sounds funny and probably nothing will feel embarrassing until tomorrow morning.

“Hi,” says a voice on the other end of the line, almost immediately.

“Hi?” Nick says, hesitating. Does he have the right number, even? Aren’t they supposed to introduce themselves, or say something sexy or whatever? He has a fairly good idea of where these conversations usually end up, but how do they start? “I’m Nick,” he ventures after too long a silence.

“Hi Nick, I’m Harry.”

“Are you, though? Or is that like, your call center name? They’re always giving people different names. And to be fair, the only people called Harry that I know are over forty-five and prematurely balding. Well, except for Prince Harry. You’re not Prince Harry, are you?” He’s stumbling over the words a little, talking a bit faster than usual, and it’s only forty percent tipsiness and sixty percent nervous babbling. He’s not sure what the nervous thing is all about. This guy probably gets plenty of phone calls from people who are much weirder than Nick. He hopes.

“Um. No, I’m not. It’s just what my name is.” The guy - Harry - sounds a little hesitant. God, phone sex operators are judging him now. This is what Nick’s life has become.

“Right! Alright then, hello to you, Harry,” Nick says quickly, cheerfully – probably a little too cheerfully. He turns off the television, as more interesting entertainment is clearly imminent. “How do these things usually go, then?”

“I think. Most of the time people just ask me what I’m wearing and stuff,” Harry says after considering for a moment.

“Fair enough. So what are you wearing, then?” Nick tries not to cringe as he hears his own words. It doesn’t sound that flirty when it’s to a stranger on the phone. Underneath the coffee table, Puppy is tilting her head at him and giving Nick what he can only conclude is a very judgy look. Either that or she's disgruntled that he's still awake and chatty in the middle of the night while she wants to go to sleep.

“Oh. Um.” Harry audibly perks up. “Jeans and a shirt. Wait. No, nothing, I’m naked. What about you?” 

Nick grins in disbelief. “Wow, you’re extra convincing about this. Thanks for the effort, I do appreciate you going the extra mile on my behalf.” He flops down onto his back, grinning. “Old Dre shirt and skinnies. Riveting, I know, but I just got in from the pub, so -”

“What colour?”

Nick blinks. “Pardon?”

“Your jeans, what colour are they?”

“You’re not very good at this, are you? Aren’t you supposed to ask me like, sexy questions or something?” This isn’t quite going the way he expected, if he’s honest. Nick runs his hand through his hair. Puppy huffs loudly from under the coffee table.

“Oh, so I am. Sorry. Um, do you want me to put you through to someone else, maybe?”

He actually _sounds_ sorry, is the thing, so now Nick feels bad for being all judgmental about the guy’s dirty talk skills. Maybe he’s new at this or something, and now Nick’s gone and made him feel all insecure about his obvious talents. Nick throws an arm over his face a bit more dramatically than he probably should. “Burgundy. They’re burgundy,” he says with a sigh.

“That sounds nice. I saw this busker playing the violin this morning on the Tube, and he was wearing burgundy jeans as well.” There is a brief silence that sounds like Harry’s hesitating. “So… no passing you on then? Good. I like your voice.” Harry sounds like he’s smiling now, and Nick’s worked in radio long enough to know you can’t sound like you’re smiling unless you’re _actually_ smiling.

So Nick smiles too, stretching and getting comfortable. “No passing me on. Tell me more about this busker, then.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to ask me about my day or anything. I mean, most guys just want me to be all, oh baby, I can’t wait to feel your big, thick cock inside me, god, yes, I need you to come on my face. That sort of thing. Unimaginative, is what it is.”

“Right. Yeah.” Nick clears his throat. “How annoying for you.” His heart is beating a bit harder against his ribcage all of a sudden, the reality of the phone call brought back into startling focus by his dick twitching in his jeans.

“Did I distract you just now?” Harry chuckles. “Oops. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound remotely sorry, Nick thinks.

“Liar,” he says, popping the button on his jeans – just so his dick doesn’t suffocate in its tight confines. That is _all_. “Though I don’t think I’m burdened with a lot of imagination, myself. I apologize in advance.” He’s sounding a bit croaky to his own ears, but it’s probably just the early onset of a hangover.

“That’s okay, I have plenty of imagination for both of us,” Harry says lightly, like he can’t hear the rustling that means Nick’s already shoving his trousers down to his knees. Maybe he shouldn’t be this into it, but this was clearly the best choice Nick made all night and for once he’s not going to second-guess things. Not until after the hangover clears up.

There is an annoyingly loud beep in his ear. Nick pulls his phone back far enough from his ear to see a text from Collette on his lit up screen, which reads _‘you forgot your wallet @ pub you idiot. bringing it now.’_

Literally two seconds later, the doorbell rings. Nick jerks upright with a curse, pulling up his trousers like he’s been caught red-handed. “Fuck, hold on,” he says into the phone. Bloody Collette. He toys briefly with the idea of not opening the door. How badly does he need his wallet, anyway? His phone buzzes again, the screen reading _‘I can see your lights on, it’s fucking cold nick, let me in’._

Nick sighs. He can’t choose phone sex with a complete stranger and leave his best friend standing outside in the cold because she’s bringing him his wallet, like the wonderful person she is. He’s pretty sure he’d feel guilty for the rest of his days.

“Hey, sorry, I have to go. My friend Collette is here to drop off my wallet. Sorry,” he says as he flicks on the hall light so Collette knows he’s on his way. He’s not sure why he’s apologizing to the phone sex operator – twice, even – but there it is.

“Aw, okay. That’s too bad, I was having a nice time.” Harry sounds genuine, Nick notes, impressed. Apparently he’s not as bad at this as Nick thought he was.

*

Nick calls back twice after that. The first time, a guy with a soft, lilting voice answers the phone and says “Hi, I’m Kieran, what’s your name?” He sounds nice enough, but Nick still feels disproportionately disappointed and mumbles a quick “Sorry, wrong number” before hanging up. The second time, a guy on the other end of the line picks up with a “Hey, baby,” and Nick hangs up with a grimace before the guy has even had a chance to say his name.

He knows the chances of hearing the same voice twice are slim. Who knows how many people even work for that number, Nick thinks. He really doesn't know nearly enough about the sex line industry. Even so, he only holds out as long as Saturday morning before he gives it another try.

The phone rings five painfully long times before there's a click. “Hi.” There’s a brief, self-aware pause, then, “This is Harry.”

“Taking your sweet time to pick up, aren't you?” Nick can't help but grin, muting the TV.

“Oh, hey. I know that voice.”

“Really?” Nick sits up a bit. He hadn’t really expected to be remembered without some prodding. He likes to imagine Harry actually sounds pleased to hear him, even. “Not getting a lot of calls then, are you? Or am I just that memorable?” He smirks at Puppy, who watches him with her head on her paws, all but rolling her eyes at him.

“Bit of both.” Harry chuckles.

“I tried calling back on Monday and Tuesday, but there was a very sleazy sounding young man who picked up the phone, I'm sorry to tell you. Who even answers the phone with ‘hey baby’?”

“Yeah, that happens. Most people don't really call to judge us on our phone manners, though.” Harry is sounding very amused. Bastard. “If you want, I'll give you my personal extension? Most of our regulars have someone they prefer talking to.”

Nick makes a face at the thought of being thought of as a 'regular' – he’s only called two (well, technically four) times, for fuck’s sake – but then he decides, whatever, he's already abandoned most of his dignity over the course of his twenties anyway. Besides, he enjoys talking to Harry, so why not. “Yeah, that might be best for everyone involved.” He writes down the number Harry gives him.

“Thanks. So what are you up to today then, hm?”

“I’m in the park, there’s this crepe place that –”

“Wait. What? You’re in the bloody park?” Nick realises his voice has taken on a high-pitched, squeaky tone, but he can’t help it. He’s been imagining Harry in a tacky looking room with red painted walls and maybe some sultry music playing in the background; or possibly in a call center type of environment wearing a headset. To keep his hands free, _obviously_. Not out and about swanning through the park or going to the bloody post office while getting Nick off on the phone. Not that there’s been much happening in the way of getting Nick off, so far, but it was definitely part of Nick’s long term strategy. Harry can’t whisper dirty things in his ear while he’s in the bloody park on a Saturday morning. Children could _hear_ him.

“Yeah?” Harry says cautiously, like Nick is a wounded bird he doesn’t want to scare off. Nick makes another horrified sound and then clears his throat and forces himself to get his actual shit together. 

“So, let me get this straight. If you were standing behind me in the queue at the supermarket some time, you might be heard talking to some bloke about licking his balls?”

“Well, I think I’d say it in a much nicer way than that. But yes. They forward the calls so we can work from anywhere. We don't have, like, offices or anything.” He can hear the grin in Harry’s voice. “But in answer to your question, if that happened I’d probably leave the queue and go somewhere with a bit more privacy.” There is what can only be described as a pregnant pause. When Harry speaks again, he’s lowered his voice. “Do you want me to go somewhere private?”

It's tempting. It’s really, really tempting. “No, it's fine,” Nick says after a pause that goes on slightly too long. He sighs loudly. “Wouldn’t want you to starve or anything. Now tell me more about these crepes. They intrigue me.”

*

When Nick’s phone bill comes in the mail a few days later, he has to swallow three times and then have a very large glass of wine. Then he has a second one, and then – oh irony - he grabs his phone and calls Harry's extension.

“So I just got my phone bill. I don't think I can afford you,” he says without introduction when Harry picks up.

Harry makes a soft humming noise. “Well, I like to think I'm worth it.”

Nick groans into the phone. God, he's so cheesy. “You're so cheesy.”

Harry laughs. “I like it when you groan,” he says. “I'm going to need that to happen more often.”

“Well, that would be where you come in, wouldn't it?” Nick shoots back, pouring himself a third glass. “I’m serious though. I’m paying by the minute here, and you’re not exactly the world’s fastest talker.”

“That’s why, as they say in Hollywood, I make the big bucks,” Harry intones. Nick groans again and okay, maybe this time it was a little bit on purpose. It makes Harry laugh again though, so, mission accomplished.

“Are you by yourself right now, then?” Harry asks, and there is an innocent tone to his voice that Nick doesn’t buy for a single second. He grins quietly, the wine already making him feel warm and relaxed. Who cares about a phone bill, really.

“All by my lonesome, I’m afraid. It’s deeply tragic.” He settles on the couch.

“No friends dropping by unexpectedly this time?” Harry’s tone is teasing, but his voice has already dropped a little lower.

“If they do, I’ll pretend I’m taking a shower or something.”

Harry hums, a soft appreciative sound in the back of his throat. It sends a little tingle down Nick’s spine. Good voice, that. “I wish you would, I bet you’d look edible.”

“I think that would probably destroy my phone.” Nick smiles quietly, stretching. “We’ll just have to imagine it.”

“Oh, I am,” Harry says calmly. “I think I’d get into that shower with you and get my hands all over you – lather you up so you’re all clean, yeah? And then I’d just get you all dirty again.”

Nick swallows thickly, before unbuttoning his jeans and slowly sliding his fingers down behind the waistband of his briefs, his dick already twitching. Long live the long term strategy. “And how would you do that?”

“Well, I’d get down on my knees first, so you could shove your dick in my mouth, all warm and wet. I’d let you fuck my mouth just the way you like it,” Harry says slowly. There’s none of that weird purring in a sultry voice Nick expected in this context. Harry’s voice is low and steady, telling him exactly what he’d like to do. It’s amazing. “How do you like it, Nick?”

Nick breathes in deeply through his nose, giving himself a slow stroke. “Yeah. Nice and slow. Not all the way, though.” It’s ridiculous how turned on he is, just by the low hum of Harry’s voice in his ear. He briefly spares a thought for how he should be feeling self-conscious, but really isn’t. God, he’s so into this.

“No,” Harry agrees. “I wouldn’t let you finish that quickly. I’d suck you off until you were close, so fucking close…”

“And then you’d stop?” Nick bites down on his lower lip, but a quiet groan still escapes him as he fists his dick faster. Harry chuckles softly, and fuck that, honestly, because it shoots right down to Nick’s cock. 

“Yeah. I’d wait until you were so desperate to come, and then I’d let you shove me right up against the shower tiles and fuck me -”

Nick curses loudly and comes all over his own hand like a bloody teenager.

“Dirty mouth.” Harry hums into his ear.

“Oh look who’s talking,” Nick croaks, giving himself a moment to let the post-orgasmic fog clear from his head. He’s quiet for a moment, too many fragments of thoughts going through his head at once. “God, this whole thing is so weird,” he mumbles, unable to help himself.

Harry, to his eternal credit, doesn’t sound offended. He just says, “Why is it weird?” like he’s genuinely interested in Nick’s opinion. Bless him.

“Well, I don’t even know what you look like, do I?”

“Isn’t that the whole point, though?” There’s a smile in Harry’s voice. “I mean… that’s the fantasy, isn’t it? That I can look like anyone you want.”

Nick makes a vague sound of agreement before he says goodbye for the night. He doesn’t say that no, that’s not the fantasy anymore, not really, because Harry’s gone and made Nick curious about him.

*

He's having lunch with Henry and Gillian at one of those pubs that are trying to go gastro. They're not succeeding very well, Nick thinks, but it doesn't really matter because the service is more than alright and he's catching up with friends. He doesn't need much more than that, really.

“Dessert?” Gillian offers.

“Hm. Does Irish Coffee count as dessert?” Henry raises an eyebrow. “Let's pretend it does.”

Nick nods, about to open his mouth and voice his agreement, when someone at a nearby table laughs. It sounds exactly like Harry, chuckling warmly in his ear. Which is ridiculous, because a) Harry might not even be in London (and, judging from Nick's phone bill, he might actually have been put through to New Delhi) and b) people's phone voices don’t usually sound like their real life voices at all. It’s just that he may have been thinking about Harry a little bit more than he should be, and it’s clearly making him start to lose his mind. He suspects it might also make him pathetic.

He shakes the thought from his head, but he's already been silent for far too long, because Henry and Gellz are both eying him suspiciously. “Irish Coffee sounds great,” he says brightly, but Henry's eyebrows just soar higher.

“I thought I heard someone I knew, that's all. But I don't think it's him.”

Henry's eyebrows have almost reached his hairline now. “What, you don't know what he looks like?”

“Oh!” Gillian grins, eyes sparkling. “Oh my God, is it the boy from the phone?”

Nick narrows his eyes at her, but at this point he can't even bring himself to be embarrassed. The only thing he feels is frustration because now he can't hear the boy-who-sounds-like-Harry over the sound of Gillian filling in Henry and the two of them mocking him loudly. He also can't look over his shoulder without drawing attention to himself, which is unfortunate. A cute guy with a voice like Harry’s might help him get this out of his system. He tries to crane his head without being noticed.

Gillian gives him a look. “It's not him, Nick. I mean, what are the odds his name is even – Harry!” She says the last word very loudly, and then grins wide. “Oh shit, he just jumped a little.”

“Because you were screaming in the bloody pub, Gillian, dear. Half the customers jumped.” Henry looks unimpressed, but Nick just chews his lip and very carefully doesn't look over his shoulder again. He doesn't know why, but it feels too risky, somehow.

*

“I saw that busker again today,” Harry says through the speaker phone as Nick tucks himself back into this trousers and gets up to wash his hands. “Green sequin blazer this morning, I’m happy to report.”

“Ooo. I do love a green sequin blazer,” Nick says with a grin. “It’s the one item still missing from my wardrobe, sadly. Would go lovely with that burgundy jean.”

Harry hums in agreement. “Next time I see him, I’ll ask him where he bought it, then.” He pauses. “I wonder if it’s fun. You know, singing or playing music in a Tube station. I think it’d be a nice way to like, make people’s day a little bit brighter, cheer them up a bit when they’re heading into work or something?”

Nick smiles fondly and resists asking the question that has just sneakily crept into his brain, which is to ask which station this busker can be found at, because he’s just realised that Harry’s in London, and that they might have crossed paths before without even realising it. The thought is strangely exhilarating, but Nick definitely doesn’t ask, because he’s pretty sure he would sound like the world’s creepiest stalker. Though in all fairness, Harry might already be thinking that, since it’s Saturday morning and Nick has been calling him every day for the past two weeks.

Nick’s trying very hard not to think about his next phone bill.

“I suspect it’s mostly loud and smelly a lot of the time. Besides, you already make my day doing what you do now.” He grins when Harry laughs. “So, what are you up on this fine day?” Nick peers through the kitchen window; it’s cold but bright outside, the sun making the idea of leaving the house in January actually appealing. Or maybe he’s just being sappy because Harry has just made him come pretty hard.

“Headed to the DVLA for my new license plate. It’s going to be a pretty wild afternoon, if I’m honest.”

“Sounds absolutely gripping. Feel free to text me if you’re bored,” Nick says without thinking, and then he immediately wants to smack himself. Way to show off Nick’s giant ego and assume he’s more special than any of the dozen creepers who call Harry every day. The thought makes Nick feel slightly queasy, so he pushes it to the back of his mind. But the point is, this is Harry’s job. Why on Earth would he talk to Nick unless he’s getting paid for it?

“Yeah, alright,” Harry says easily.

“I’ll. Give you my number.” Nick blinks.

“No need, I can see it on my screen.”

Nick pauses midway through pouring his coffee. “Aren’t these things supposed to be anonymous?” It’s not that he minds, in this case, but he feels like a token protest is in order, at least. Privacy and all that.

“Yeah.” He can hear Harry grin’s even despite the low bleep in his ear. “There, now you have mine. Aren’t you glad you called me that first night and not an unstable stalker?”

Nick smiles despite himself. “You might still turn out to be one.”

“Fair enough. You’ll just have to find out,” Harry says, and then he hangs up. Nick is pretty sure Harry isn’t allowed to hang up on his customers, but he can’t seem to be bothered by it, since it’s roughly thirty seconds until Nick realises he’s still grinning at his phone like some sort of lunatic.

Puppy yips, annoyed at the lack of attention coming her way, and rightly so.

*

Harry doesn’t text, and why would he? Nick walks Puppy three times in as many hours just to keep busy and stave off his frustration. Well, less frustration and more annoyance with himself. Harry’s not going to text him for shits and giggles, not when Nick calling him is where he makes his actual money.

That thought doesn’t make him feel any better.

*

He doesn’t call Harry the following day, or the one after that. He knows he could. He could call the familiar number, pretend nothing’s changed and simply pick up where they left off, and Harry would just go along with it. The truth is though, that things _have_ changed, and Nick is starting to feel like this has all gone a bit too far. This isn’t what he wants anymore. He either wants to get to know Harry properly, even if it doesn’t lead anywhere; or just move on with his life before he gets any more obsessed. He just hasn’t decided which one.

“Mm.” Nick nods absently at Pixie without hearing a word of what she’s just said. Before he loses his nerve, he fishes his phone out of his coat pocket and sends Harry a quick text that just reads _‘What’s up?’_ He definitely does not have the time to second-guess what he’s sent or cringe at his complete and utter lack of text-game. He’s being spontaneous, thanks very much. 

At the next table over, a phone buzzes on the wooden table and a guy glances down at the lit up screen. Nick’s stomach does a horrible sort of somersault and he tries to sternly tell himself not to jump to immediate conclusions. It’s bad enough that he can’t take the Tube anymore without seeing Harry in every young man he passes. He turns back to his friends and intently listens to their conversations, nodding in all the right places and definitely not watching the guy type something on his phone out of the corner of his eye. The guy’s talking to his friends in a voice that sounds a lot like Harry’s. Not that Nick is listening.

Nick’s phone vibrates in his pocket and he actually jumps a little in his seat, which he didn’t think people did outside of cartoons. He tries to read the message surreptitiously under the table – it says _‘out for beers with friends, you?’_ – but Aimee clears her throat very loudly, very close to his ear.

“Booty call?” She arches an eyebrow at him.

“Yes. No. No, just a text. Next round is on me, everyone.” He clears his throat, pushing back his chair. “Same again?”

Nick literally almost trips over his feet on his way to the bar, which is ridiculous, but he needs to put some distance between himself and the next table. He orders their drinks and texts back a quick _‘same :)’_. If this is Harry, and he recognizes Harry’s voice in a crowded room, there’s every chance Harry will recognize _his_ – even if he doesn’t flatter himself enough to think he’s made as big of an impression on Harry’s life as Harry has made on his. And the thing is, if Harry does put two and two together, then what? There’s nowhere for this to go, really, Nick is well aware of that.

The guy smiles as his phone buzzes and types out a lengthy reply before finally putting it away and turning back to his friends. Nick can feel his own phone buzzing in his back pocket and tries very hard not to have a nervous breakdown.

He studies Harry’s face from a distance. He looks young, much younger than Nick had assumed. Far, far too young, bloody hell. Still, his treacherous mind supplies, as he’s waiting for their order and leaning against the bar. It’s nice to see a face to go with the voice. And quite a nice face, too. He doesn’t look at all like Nick imagined in his many and varied fantasies, but now that he knows, nothing else makes sense somehow. It’s weird how that works.

He realises he’s still staring at Harry, and in the same second he realises that Harry’s copped on and is watching him too, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Shit.

He’s never been more grateful to see a tray full of shots appear in front of him, and he picks it up and carries it back to their table, carefully avoiding Harry’s eyes. He’s pretty sure he needs an exit strategy because he’s not quite sure he trusts himself to say normal person things if Harry decides to come over and introduce himself. “Oh I know, I got off while you were talking to me about five times this week,” is probably not the ideal conversation opener.

“Yessss. Come to me,” Pixie intones, looking adoringly at the tray and sliding three of the shots towards her. “So Nick, who’s the lanky one you were eyefucking just now?”

A bit of the Jägermeister goes straight up Nick’s nose and he coughs, his eyes watering at the burn. “What?” He keeps his voice low so Harry won’t be able to hear him. Better safe than sorry.

“Exceptionally smooth behaviour, Grimmy. I can see why the boys can’t get enough of you.” Aimee smirks. “He’s hot, go talk to him.”

“I can say with certainty that that won’t be happening.” He closes his eyes and pours the next shot directly down his throat. It’s clearly going to be a long night.

*

Nick closes the door to Pixie and Aimee’s cab, giving them both a sloppy little wave before shoving his hands in his pockets and heading up the hill. It’s late enough that the streets are mostly quiet, but not deserted enough to be eerie. Nick doesn’t like complete silences; he never knows what to do with them. That’s why he came to London.

“Hi.”

Nick chokes on air and is already halfway to handing over his wallet – his mum will have a field day, she’s been warning Nick about muggers since he moved here eight years ago – when he glances up at the stranger and –

Shit. Double shit.

“Hey.” He gives Harry a faint smile. “Sorry, thought you were about to rob and murder me.”

Harry blinks, and Nick isn’t sure if his voice is ringing a bell or if Harry’s just taken aback by Nick being such a complete weirdo in his presence. He buttons his coat against the cold wind and wonders if he should address the elephant in the, uh, street.

Harry saves him from further internal monologue-ing and drama-queen-ing. “Is your name Nick?” he says quietly, and he’s looking both apprehensive and curious.

Nick wrinkles his nose. “It is.” He can’t place the look in Harry’s eyes, but he can imagine the way he’s clearly putting the pieces together in his head but can’t yet figure out how much of a coincidence this is. “But look, before you think really creepy things, I promise I’m not stalking you. I just happened to recognize your voice, earlier, in the pub. I wasn’t sure if it was you or not, so I sent a text.” Nick frowns, shrugging his shoulders in his coat. “And I was pretty sure then, but I wasn’t sure if I should say anything or not…” He trails off. “I mean, it would be awkward. As you can currently experience firsthand. Also, you’re fucking young, and it threw me off.”

“Hey, I’m nineteen.” Harry frowns a bit, little wrinkles appearing above his nose. He really does have a great face, Nick thinks. He can’t remember the face he’d imagined Harry to have anymore, it’s like it’s been erased from his mind. “I just thought you looked nice,” Harry says. “Wanted to say hello. I didn’t think I’d already –“

Provided you with many an orgasm, Nick mentally finishes the sentence when it’s clear Harry isn’t going to. He feels awful for Harry all of a sudden. It’s not exactly how he pictured it in several of his more romantic comedy inspired daydreams either.

“Look,” Nick says with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I live just up the street, if you want a drink. I think we could both use one.” He smiles faintly. Harry looks unsure, but then nods slowly.

*

Harry clears his throat, lifting his glass to take an excruciatingly slow drink, and taking great care to put the glass back down in the exact ring of condensation it has left on Nick's kitchen table.

This is going splendidly. 

“Someone has to say something,” Nick says. He tries to keep his tone light and jokey. He doesn’t think he succeeds very well.

Harry clears his throat again, quietly. “I really like it when you laugh. On the phone, I mean. When I’m talking about stuff. It always sounds like an honest laugh.” It’s so genuine that Nick doesn’t even know what to say. He wants to get to know this person properly, he thinks. He wants to find out how Harry can go from rambling incoherent stories about people on the Underground and good crepe stands, to saying the dirtiest stuff imaginable in Nick’s ear and making him come in under two minutes.

“Well, I thought you were pretty funny. You had your moments, anyway,” he says helplessly, trying to stop himself from sounding overly fond.

“I'm sorry I didn't text you,” Harry says quietly, glancing up. “I wanted to but then I chickened out, I thought maybe you were just being nice. And then you stopped calling, so then I definitely didn't want to text and be all clingy and awkward.”

“Yeah, I'm so happy we avoided things getting awkward,” Nick says dryly.

Harry giggles, letting his forehead drop down to rest on his forearm. “God, yeah, lucky escape.” He glances up from under his curls, watching Nick for a moment. He's so pretty. Nick wants to go scream into a pillow or something. “So if you wanted to call me some time, like, on my own phone, that would be nice.”

*

They text back and forth for the next few days, and it’s really nice. Harry’s still clever and charming and now that Nick knows what he looks like, he suspects he just might be completely fucked, if he’s honest. He doesn’t call Harry though. It might be awkward, and he doesn’t want Harry to feel like he’s only calling for one reason. So he texts, and they go out for lunch twice. Harry even likes a bunch of Nick’s Instagram pictures, even the ones that are just memes, which is _big_. And today, they’re walking Puppy together, but they still haven’t had the conversation. The one that goes, _‘I would love to kiss you in real life.’_

“God, you weren’t joking, these are amazing,” Nick says instead as he tries not to inhale his crepe completely. Choking to death would probably not look attractive, or be a clever thing to do when you’re on a date. At least he thinks they’re on a date. They’ve been out to lunch and had coffee, which are both acceptable date scenarios, and now they’re eating crepes in the park while walking Puppy, and it’s all very Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks but neither of them has really said the word ‘date’. 

Nick suspects that Harry might just be looking for a friend, since he hasn’t been in London that long, but the fact remains that Harry was giving Nick loads more orgasms _before_ they’d actually met face to face. He supposes that’s a backwards way of going about things, but it can’t be helped now, can it? And if nothing else, he’s enjoying Harry’s company.

“Told you.” Harry hums, dimpling at him. It is utterly and completely unfair that Nick never knew that Harry looked like this when he was actually fantasizing about him. Nick throws the soggy tennis ball he’s got in his non-crepe-holding hand and watches Puppy tear off after it. Harry's standing right by him, singing a song about Puppy that Nick's pretty sure he just made up on the spot. It's not half bad, either. Talented little freak.

“Nick. _Nick_.” Harry says loudly. “Is everything alright?” He furrows his brow, all concern. It’s doing Nick’s head in. “You were doing that thing where you get a crinkle between your eyes because you’re worrying.”

“I'm fine, don't worry,” he says, mostly because he's not sure how to say, _’not really, I apparently can't function as a normal human being around you’_ or possibly, _‘oh God you know me far too well already.’_

“Hey, stop walking and talk to me for a second, will you?” Harry makes an exasperated sound, tugging at Nick's coat sleeve, and then Harry kisses him, right in the middle of the park. He keeps his fingers curled in Nick’s sleeve and kisses Nick like everything depends on it, even though their coats are a bit bulky and the drizzle is ruining their hair and Puppy is scratching excitedly at Nick’s calf because she wants to play too.

“That so wasn’t talking.” Nick can't stop himself from smiling when they pull apart, but he adopts a very casual and nonchalant expression that likely wouldn't fool a child. “So I just have to drop off Puppy and then I'm supposed to go meet my friends after this, you want to come?”

“Always,” Harry grins, ignoring Nick's mortified groan and falling into step with him.

They’re both looking a bit flushed and disheveled when they finally arrive, but the pub is hot and crowded and his friends already there. Pixie crows when she sees Harry and starts introducing him to everyone as ‘the leggy one Nick was eyefucking last week’ before Harry’s even had a chance to say his name. He looks comfortable enough though, and no one seems to think they met elsewhere, nor are they apparently surprised that Nick pulled a stranger from the pub. He would be offended, but. Well.

“So Harry, what do you do? Are you at university?” Alexa sips her beer, watching him with interest.

“He works for a call center,” Nick blurts out, not at all casually. Alexa gives him a look like she’s not sure why that required as much vehemence as it did, but thankfully she lets it go.

“No I don’t.” Harry raises an eyebrow, looking at him intently. Nick’s stomach plummets about five feet.

“You… don’t?” he tries cautiously. He knows Harry has this thing for being honest at all times, and it’s not like he’s ashamed. God knows his friends have seen Nick meet people in far odder places. It’s just that he doesn’t want this to define Harry. But he supposes that if Harry wants to be up front about this, that’s his call and not Nick’s.

“No, they sacked me like two weeks ago.” Harry says brightly, worming his fingers into the pockets of his far too skinny jeans.

“They what, now?” Nick stares. He opens his mouth before reconsidering and ushering Harry over to the next empty table. “What do you mean, they _sacked_ you?” he asks, voice low. “Can they just do that?!”

“No one was really asking for me, it was mostly just you. And if you’re not like, popular or in demand, you get phased out pretty quickly. And like, my boss said I wasn’t very good at keeping people interested…” He shrugs, not sounding particularly concerned.

“Well, you have to keep them entertained, young Harold.” Nick smiles, pausing. “Wait, mostly just me?” He’s briefly puzzled by how simultaneously relieved and affronted he feels. “That doesn’t sound very fair at all. People are clearly idiots. You’re amazing at keeping people interested!”

“Stop being upset that I mostly only had phone sex with you, you big weirdo.” Harry grins, and oh. That’s actually a good point. Nick rolls his eyes at himself and then he has to go get them both a glass of wine because he doesn’t want Harry to slip in the puddle of affection he’s turned into.

“So what’s next, now that you got sacked?” Alexa asks with a mild frown, once they’re back at their own table. She’s always so perceptive, Nick’s briefly worried that she’s suspicious of Harry’s previous job. Then he realises that he’s an arse, and that she’s simply interested because she’s taken a liking to Harry.

“Dunno, really.” Harry frowns, thinking hard for a moment. “I think I might want to become a street performer. Maybe one of those painted living statues on the Embankment.”

Alexa blinks for a long second before she bursts out laughing, everyone else joining in. Nick tries very hard to control his own smile but it’s too hard and all over his face. “Can’t believe you were calling me a weirdo.” He shakes his head fondly, snaking an arm around Harry’s waist and tugging him close. Harry just shrugs and smiles placidly, before wrapping his arms around Nick’s neck and kissing his ear. He’s going to be Nick’s undoing, fuck.

“Hey. Can we go back to your place after we finish our drinks?” Harry murmurs slowly in Nick’s ear, sending shivers down his spine. “I’ve been telling you over and over again how I’d like you to fuck me. I think it’s high time you delivered, don’t you?”

Nick tries very hard not to groan. _Definitely_ his undoing. He firmly puts his hand over Harry’s mouth, trying to prevent him from doing any more damage to his ability to function in a social setting.

“Stop. Bloody hell, of course. Yes. Yeah. Just. Don’t say words until we get to my place, because that voice of yours is terribly unfair. Not to mention what comes out of your mouth.” He laughs when Harry gives him a smug look and nips at his hand. “God, I still can’t believe they fired you.” Nick shakes his head. “Do they have any brains at all?”

“Well, a lot of them felt I should say more nice things about their cocks and less about buskers I saw performing in the Tube, I guess.” Harry shrugs, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

Nick shakes his head solemnly, hiding a smile of his own. “Philistines.”

***


End file.
